


Takes Two To Tango

by phqyd_roar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Bottom Sherlock, Crossover, Dirty Talk, Dual Endings, FIx It, Fluff, Issues, Jealous John, John is a bit of a git, Love at first sight?, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Virgin Sherlock, Whirlwind Romance, big dick Iain, kind of, no knowledge of WTF necessary to understand the story, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phqyd_roar/pseuds/phqyd_roar
Summary: “You kiss like you’re waiting for your heart to be broken.”Just when Sherlock Holmes is beginning to think his relationship with John Watson will never recover from all its ups and downs, he meets Iain MacKelpie, freelance photographer back from Afghanistan, who looks exactly like John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me out of Tumblr discussions that by the end of the pile of flaming poo that was S4, it is John who needs a wake up call, a Garrideb's moment, rather than Sherlock. What better competition than a dashing photojournalist who looks just like him? ;)

It had been six months since John Watson moved back into 221B with his daughter Rosie, and things were…odd, between him and Sherlock. They couldn’t stand not being in each other’s company, but any time it seemed like things were going back to that old, easy intimacy they shared before everything in the intervening years, either John or Sherlock balked and backed away. It was rubbing Sherlock raw. And he was very fond of Rosie, of course, but infants were a handful, and Sherlock was terribly inept with them. 

Sherlock went to see Eurus a lot. For all that she’d put him through, Sherlock found it hard to hate her. There was a certain masochism in him, perhaps. Or maybe it was that Sherlock recognized himself in her, because he too had that darkness and madness in him waiting to tip at the moment of imbalance. Sherlock was not sentimental about things like family and blood, it was just something about Eurus that drew him in.

 

“Tell me about your sex life,” demanded Eurus, in what was actually one of her saner moments.

No one ever talked to Sherlock like that. People never assume that he’ll just tell them what they ask - possibly because Sherlock usually doesn’t.

Sherlock put down his violin, on which he had been playing John’s song.

“I don’t have one.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire.”

“Not. Currently.”

“Previously, then?”

“Only once. It was terrible,” Sherlock admitted, looking away.

Eurus shifted closer to the glass, interested.

“Why?”

“Well I had no idea what to do with her-”

“You had sex with a _woman_?”

“ _The_ woman,” said Sherlock irritably.

“Oh, Irene.” Eurus gave an unsettling, lopsided smile reminiscent of Sherlock’s own. “Jim said she was rather good.”

“She had sex with Moriarty?” Sherlock recoiled. “Eugh! I didn’t think it could get any worse.”

“Irene has sex with everyone. Haven’t you met her?”

If Sherlock could scrub every trace of Irene Adler out of his skin, he would.

“Go on now. I want the details.”

“Is this something siblings are supposed to talk about?”

“Of course it isn’t. Tell me at once.”

Sherlock sighed.

“It was quite a few years ago now - before the whole ordeal with Moriarty. I suppose you know about her holding the Royal family at ransom?”

“Sherlocked,” said Eurus knowledgeably. “Jim so enjoyed that.”

“Well. After that I tracked her movements. I knew that before long she would get into some trouble, and I am fond of trouble. I managed to take her off the hands of some unpleasant people in Pakistan. She insisted on repaying me by showing me ‘what I like’. Suffice to say that I did not, in fact, like it.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you suck at telling stories. No wonder you have no friends. Why did you go through with it, if you were so reluctant? What exactly did she think you would like and why didn’t you like it? What’s going on with the two of you now?”

Sherlock heaved an enormous sigh.

“I was emotionally compromised. She’s a dominatrix, use your imagination. I found it humiliating and unpleasant. There is nothing going on with us now.”

“Emotionally compromised…” Eurus breathed, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Sherlock for clues. 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. It was not fun to have his methods turned back on him.

“John Watson,” Eurus stated confidently.

Ah, John Watson. Even the name made Sherlock’s heart skip a beat, and he knew that Eurus saw.

“John served in Afghanistan, didn’t he? Being over there reminded you of him. Somehow, it made an even stronger impression on you than having the man beside you every day. You were forced to confront the fact that you had feelings for him, and it made you…uncomfortable? Uncomfortable enough that you thought having sex with a _woman_ would be a good idea? You should have at least found a man, Sherlock. For god’s sake, look at how gay you are.”

Was there no where John wouldn’t follow? Now even Eurus found it amusing to discuss Sherlock’s pitiful sentiments. 

“Goodbye,” Sherlock said brusquely, shoving his violin back into his case.

“You should try having sex with a man,” Eurus suggested pleasantly as he left. “Might be more fun than shagging Irene.”

 

Sherlock had absolutely no intention of taking Eurus’ advice until he got home to Baker Street late in the evening and found Molly sitting with Rosie watching cartoons.

“Where’s John?”

Molly’s guilty pause told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

“A date,” Sherlock deduced flatly.

Molly winced. 

“It’s - he - a coffee shop -”

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock. “I’ll be back later.”

“Sherlock!” Molly called after him as Sherlock rushed back down the stairs. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely fine!” Sherlock yelled back, swinging open the front door and hailing a cab. 

“Where to, mate?” Said the cabbie, who looked like Jefferson Hope. Most of the cabbies in London looked like Jefferson Hope. It was impossible to take a cab in London without thinking of John.

"Changed my mind," said Sherlock.

He climbed out and began to walk. He walked with no destination and no particular thought in mind. The same old ideas swirled around and around his head; he hated them. They were problems that his rational mind could not solve. He had painstakingly set up a thousand scenarios of things he could have done differently to not end up here: tired, broken, and alienated from the man he loved most. Whatever clever idea he thought of in retrospect served no use but to annoy himself. Sentiment was a man's downfall.

It was well into morning when he found himself coming upon Buckingham Palace, where there gathered a crowd of tourists despite the early hour. Sherlock was ready to turn away from the abhorrent crowd and seek another path when he caught sight of something impossible. No, hardly impossible, but certainly improbable.

There was a man who looked alarmingly like John. They were the exact same height and build, and had the same wide eyes, expressive face, and dishwater blond hair. They could have been twins. He would have been tempted to say it _was_ him. But this man had a different hairstyle, a smatter of stubble, _much_ better sense of style, and carried himself in an entirely different manner. This man was chuckling to himself as he photographed a little girl who was trying to make off with the belt of a motionlessly exasperated palace guard. Sherlock approached him as though there was a magnetic pull coming off the man.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock said, with an overwhelming wave of de ja vu. 

The man lowered his camera, looked Sherlock straight in the eye, and gave him a sunny grin. 

“Afghanistan,” he said in a thick Scottish accent. “How’d you know that, mate?”

Afghanistan. Sherlock was tempted to call up Mycroft and demand to know if he engineered this. _The universe is rarely so lazy…_

“Your camera bears scorch marks from an RPG, and your scarf is handmade in a Middle Eastern tradition,” Sherlock explained, realising he had been staring intensely at the man for a long moment. “The camera itself is at least four years old, but good quality and well maintained; you handle it like a professional. Warzone photographer, recently returned from Afghanistan, a short holiday, perhaps, between gigs? You’ve been removed from Britain for quite some time, enough that it amuses you to see the old tourists traps. And-”

Sherlock withdrew a boarding pass stub from the man’s jacket pocket and flicked his eyes over it rapidly. 

“You’ve returned just today. Welcome to London, Iain MacKelpie.”

Sherlock smiled widely. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t felt like this for years.

Iain MacKelpie stared at him open mouthed long enough for Sherlock to begin to worry, and then burst into rambunctious laughter, clapping Sherlock heartily on the back.

“Ay, Christ, you are something! Most people just say ‘come here often’?”

“I’m not most people,” Sherlock retorted easily.

“Who are ya, then?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He extended a hand out of habit. Iain shook it firmly without removing his other hand from Sherlock’s back. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Iain grinned, eyes sparkling as he looked Sherlock up and down.

“Dinner’s boring. Would you like to see the Tower of London with me?”

“Why not,” said Sherlock. “Last time I went a master criminal had just hijacked the crown jewels, so it can’t get any worse.”

“Did _you_ hijack the crown jewels?” Iain looked as though he might admire Sherlock if he had, but unfortunately ash trays were the largest things Sherlock had ever thieved from the Royal family.

“Certainly not. I have no interest in shiny, overpriced hunks of metal.”

"I do," said Iain, looking at Sherlock as though he was the precious metal in question.

They went to the Tower of London, where Sherlock regaled Iain with the tales of Moriarty as something to be laughed at. Iain had been in the Middle East for the better part of ten years, and had barely heard anything of the scandals back home. It was liberating, in a way, to speak of him as something gone past. Sherlock had not realised that Moriarty’s glittering eyes still haunted him until he managed to dissipate it. 

For lunch, Sherlock introduced Iain to his favourite chippy place, and they shared a generous portion of greasy fish and chips doused in vinegar and wrapped in paper, the proper English way. Iain mentioned being kidnapped by the Taliban and they started a competition of inappropriate reactions to being kidnapped.

“-So I nicked some bullets off em and took em back to my friends in Kabul as a nice little memento, yeah?”

“Well, I was kidnapped to the headquarters of a multinational crime network in Slovenia and I escaped by telling the man torturing me that his wife was cheating on him.”

Iain guffawed. “And he didn’t bash your head in?”

“He went home and presumably bashed his wife’s lover’s head in.” Sherlock shrugged. “I escaped, free as a bird.”

After lunch Iain suggested the scenic ferry ride down the Thames. Sherlock sneered and tutted and entertained them by pointing out all the spots where bodies had been pulled out of the water. There was soon a radius of two metres around the two of them as other boat passengers backed away in alarm. Undeterred, they cackled to themselves, leaning against the very back of the boat, watching the water churn away beneath them and the city pass by.

“Blimey,” said Iain, shaking his head. “Here I’ve gone all the way to the fucking Middle East to find some excitement, and you’ve been having more fun than me in dull old London.”

“There is nowhere in the world quite like it,” Sherlock declared.

“Why?”

“There is simply no better tea.”

“Bullocks,” said Iain, elbowing Sherlock. “They’ve loads better tea in China. Why?”

“It is as familiar as the periodic table, but like the periodic table, it is constantly changing, and much remains undiscovered.”

“How romantic, Mr Holmes,” Iain teased. “But why can’t it be Cairo or Minsk or Kandahar? Will you not be Sherlock Holmes away from London?”

Sherlock could see in Iain’s eyes a challenge for adventure that was a mite alarming. 

“In London I am more Sherlock Holmes than anywhere else,” he replied finally, turning up the collar on his Belstaff. 

Iain smiled in such a way that seemed to mean he found the answer silly, but would indulge Sherlock anyway. He leaned forward, licking his lips, and Sherlock tilted his head to meet him. Then they were quite simply kissing on the back of a ferry with the wind in their hair, Sherlock and this wonderful stranger who was far too convenient to be true. 

Sherlock broke the kiss first. 

“You kiss like a virgin,” Iain declared.

Sherlock glared.

“No, not like that,” said Iain, putting a soothing hand on Sherlock’s arm. “You kiss like you’re waiting for your heart to be broken.”

Sherlock scoffed, blushing despite himself. 

“How absurd.”

Iain did not press it.

It was much, much later, after drinks in Canary Wharf and a lot of groping, during some excellent snogging in the back of the cab did Sherlock slip.

“John,” he sighed between Iain’s lips.

“Hmmm,” said Iain, drawing back. “That’s yer flatmate. The one with the baby.”

“Yes,” Sherlock had to admit, cursing himself for having mentioned John’s name before this. 

“Is the flatmate actually your boyfriend?” Iain smiled disarmingly to show he wouldn’t care if it was, but the tightness around his eyes gave him away.

“No,” said Sherlock.

“But you wish he was?”

Sherlock did not speak. Iain looked steadily at him, and the silence grew heavy.

“Aye, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” Iain said softly. “It’s already been broken.” 

The cab pulled up outside Iain’s hotel. The Scotsman groped his way into Sherlock’s pocket and put his number into Sherlock’s phone. 

“It was nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.” He winked. “Take care.”

He swung the door shut and the cab grew a great deal emptier.

“221 Baker Street,” said Sherlock, and tried not to feel so terrible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson makes Sherlock sad, so Sherlock shags Iain MacKelpie. #basically

“Were you out all night?” John asked mildly when Sherlock got home.

It was a reasonable enough question, but it rankled Sherlock anyway. John had left his toddler at home while he went off on a date with a woman, what right had he to ask? To be fair, Sherlock had no right to be annoyed about that either. However, the rationale didn’t stop him. So he conveniently ignored John and reached down to pick up Rosie, who was playing with blocks on a blanket on the floor. She babbled happily, rubbing her chubby little face against Sherlock’s shirt.

“You’ve put on weight again, Watson,” he told her. “Quite extraordinary, considering how much of your food ends up on the floor.”

“No,” she said, poking him in the face. 

“Don’t call a girl fat, Sherlock,” John said in a teasing tone. 

He was watching the two of them fondly. John seemed to think of Sherlock as a paternal figure to his child, despite how glaringly terrible he was at the task. Sherlock had valiantly endeavored to help John with the caring of a baby, for a while. But for all his considerable intellect, he had needed to be told that babies were not, in fact, fond of curry, and were very much fond of sleep. He had tried changing her nappy, once. He detested it. He tried to cheer himself up by examining the consistency of infant feces under the microscope, but it did not help. John seemed to find it quite funny. John also found it amusing that Sherlock called his daughter ‘Watson’ as though she were a Victorian gentleman. But honestly, Sherlock just disliked her name. It was too babyish, and she was quite enough of a baby already. 

“Why not,” replied Sherlock, after too long an interval. “She is too young to be offended. Probably why she likes me.”

“I’m sure living in this house she’ll grow up to be very difficult to offend. Probably’ll have seen dead bodies before she’s five.” John shut his mouth abruptly.

He had accidentally touched on two sensitive topics: the future, and Sherlock’s Work. Would Rosie Watson grow up at 221B Baker Street? Sherlock had imagined it possible, awkward peace though it would be. John and his daughter and his bachelor friend, an odd family composition, but one all the same. Mrs Hudson would, inevitably, pass away at some point, and, having no children, would likely leave 221A to Sherlock. John and Rosie would move to the bigger space downstairs, and Sherlock would wreck havoc in 221B as usual. Then Rosie would grow up and move away, and Sherlock and John would grow old and move to Sussex. But now John was apparently dating again, and even Sherlock’s tenuous imaginings of their future together crumbled. John was just as likely to find another woman - not of Mary’s caliber, perhaps, he couldn’t be expected to date every retired assassin in London - get married, move out, and Sherlock would be alone yet again. 

Then there was The Work. Sherlock had not taken on any cases since he made the discovery that his love of puzzle-solving arose from childhood trauma. It was so quaint, it _disgusted_ him; the sort of thing Sherlock would scorn in any of his clients. A childhood friend, dead because of his inadequacy, and so he spends the rest of his life in apparent penance, saving others though he could not save the first. _In the end, are you really so predictable?_ No, now Sherlock felt a wave of obstinate revulsion whenever he thought of his Work and all that it had given him. He had put his Work on hiatus. For his health, presumably. But Sherlock knew that he had utterly lost the desire to solve any more crime. So now he was forty years old, and in need of a new occupation. A midlife crisis, they call it. Generally it did not come at the discovery of a secret sister and repressed childhood trauma, but the end result was rather the same.

 

He and John, they did not talk about these things. Perhaps there might have been a point where they could have sat down and talked through all that hung in the air between them, but now there was too much of it, and it clung thickly to the atmosphere of their every interaction. Often, when their eyes met, there was a tense moment when it seemed as though someone would say something to slice through it, but it passed, always. They were both cowardly with sentiment. So they danced around each other like soldiers in a minefield, trying not to trip any wires with lighthearted banter.

“Well, I’d better put Rosie to bed,” said John.

Sherlock found that Rosie had slumped against his chest, sucking her thumb. He rose carefully and handed her to John.

“Have- have you been drinking?” John sniffed and frowned.

“Oh, a little,” said Sherlock vaguely. 

John looked worried. He looked as though he might say something. _Why_ , perhaps, or _who,_ he might ask. But no. The minutes of awkward silence had made him nervous about saying too much. He nodded and carried his sleeping baby up the stairs. 

Sherlock reached for his phone and pulled up Iain Mackelpie’s contact page. He tried to think of something clever to say. Failing that, he grabbed his coat and swept out of the door again.

On the cab, he texted Mycroft.

_What do we say about coincidence? -SH_

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

_What of fate? -SH_

_A poor man’s crutch, a rich man’s excuse._

_A desperate man’s salvation. -SH_

_Are you quite well?_

_Perfectly. -SH_

His phone began buzzing in his pocket. Sherlock turned it off.

At Iain’s hotel, Sherlock amused himself by stealing a concierge uniform and calmly hacking intothe hotel database to get Iain’s room number. He could ask, but what was the fun in that? He put his coat into a dry cleaning sleeve, took the lift up to the twelfth floor, and rung Iain’s doorbell. 

“Room service,” he called, in a higher voice than usual.

Iain opened the door with damp hair, wearing only a pair of red boxers. Sherlock swallowed appreciatively, gaze tracing the golden hair that lightly dusted Iain’s chest to abdomen. 

“I don’t believe I ordered this type o’ service,” said Iain, looking him straight in the eye as usual.

“With the compliments of the hotel, Mr Mackelpie,” said Sherlock.

Iain laughed and pulled him inside.

Sherlock pulled off the silly concierge hat and flopped down on the king sized bed.

“I love hotel beds,” he declared.

“Me too,” said Iain, flopping right down beside him. “Especially when they don’t smell like donkey arse.”

Sherlock giggled. Iain did a neat little roll, and he was on top of Sherlock, covering him with his compact, mostly naked body. He held himself up with his elbows planted either side of Sherlock’s shoulders and smirked down at him.

“What are you doing here, love?”

“Um,” said Sherlock. He put his hands on Iain’s warm skin, feeling the muscle move under his fingers. “I would like to have sex with you.”

Iain grinned even wider. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he drawled, dragging his gaze down Sherlock’s body. “Ay, this uniform sucks balls. You should take it off.”

So Sherlock stood up and methodically pulled off all his garments while Iain sprawled on the bed watching him. He stopped at his underpants and cocked a brow at Iain, his thumb dipping into the band.

“Come here,” said Iain, his voice lower, eyes darkened.

Immediately upon kneeling between Iain’s spread legs Sherlock was pulled down into a consuming kiss, enough tongue and lips and teeth to make his head spin and his breath grow short. 

“Pretty sure I was gonna say something else, but you’re so gorgeous I’ve forgot,” Iain rumbled. 

His fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair to pull him into another kiss. Iain kissed with his entire body, hands roaming, hips undulating, plucking at Sherlock’s nipples and squeezing his arse. Sherlock moaned and gasped and melted into him, the buzzing heat of arousal conveniently shutting out any thought that did not involve skin and sweat and carnal movement.

“Wanna fuck you,” muttered Iain. “Gorgeous, posh boy, so fucking perfect, how are you real? Hm?”

He flipped them over. Calloused fingers tugged down Sherlock’s last shred of clothing, and his swollen cock bounced up.

“Lovely,” said Iain, and wrapped his hand around it. 

He was more fondling than stroking it, exploring Sherlock’s body with a look of intense concentration and praise dripping from his lips. There was nothing Sherlock liked better. Sighing happily, he spread his legs wider and bent his knees.

“Oh, look at you. Look at that little hole.” Iain rolled his thumb over the furled opening. “Gonna open you up, stuff you full, would you like that, love? Do you want me to put my cock in you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed.

“Say my name, sweetheart.”

What a cheesy line, Sherlock thought, quirking a smile. Iain was suited to cheesy lines like fine scotch to rib-eye steak. He probably had no problem picking people up at bars asking if they fell from heaven.

“Iain. Please.”

“Mmmm,” Iain groaned, like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, and buried his face between Sherlock’s legs.

A wet tongue swiped against Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock jumped and shouted, his legs locking around Iain’s neck in an instant, and the Scotsman chuckled against him, licking into him with open moans as though Sherlock’s body was some sort of feast.

This was nothing like what Irene had done, Sherlock thought dazedly, and then Iain replaced his tongue with one finger, and that was rather delightful too. He moved his mouth to Sherlock’s testicles and lapped his way up to the mushroom head of Sherlock’s cock, pumping his finger inside Sherlock all the while. 

“You’re loud, I love it,” said Iain, brushing his lips along Sherlock’s flexing abdomen. “I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I get all the way inside you. You’ll look lovely. Do you look lovely?”

“You’ll have to let me know,” said Sherlock. “You’ll be the only one to have seen it.”

“Seriously?” Iain made a delighted face. “All to meself? What an honour, Mr Holmes.”

With a dishy wink, he dived for the condom and lubricant in his backpack.

“Do you always carry contraceptives everywhere you go?”

“Of course.” Iain tore open a pack of lube and squeezed it into his open palm. “Quite necessary. Comes in handy in pubs, airport toilets, bomb shelters, flower markets…”

“Shut up,” laughed Sherlock, pulling a face. “What an idiot you are.”

“Cheers, I’ll get that framed,” said Iain. He sank two sticky fingers into Sherlock’s arse. “By the way, I’ve got a massive cock, so we’ll take it nice and slow with this.”

Sherlock snorted. “Massive?” 

He reached for Iain’s hips and tugged down his boxers, then gave his erection a long, lazy stroke. 

“I estimate that at 7.4 inches. Above average, certainly, hardly gargantuan.”

“Mhm, perfect size. Any bigger and no bloke would want it up their bum.”

“You’re terribly vulgar,” Sherlock complained.

“Am I making you blush? I’m not sorry. That’s the whole point.” Iain said. He kissed Sherlock before he could complain any more.

True to his word, Iain spent an age fingering Sherlock’s hole, teasingly brushing against Sherlock’s prostate, and patiently ignoring Sherlock’s complaints until he could easily thrust four fingers in and out. Sherlock felt loose and warm and dizzy when Iain finally lifted his hips and guided his cock into Sherlock’s wet, loosened opening. It was a satisfying stretch that made Sherlock’s cock throb, and he dug his heels into Iain’s waist to pull him in closer. 

“Iain,” Sherlock groaned, just to ground himself. It was difficult, with Iain’s face so close, his eyes so bright, not to mistake him for John. Sherlock wondered if Iain’s cock looked just like John’s, too.

“Yes, darling, sweet love, what can I do for you, hm? Do you like this?” Iain kept up a low, crooning stream of words, rocking himself into Sherlock harder and faster as Sherlock grew more vocal in his agreement.

“There you go, love, let me take care of you. Let go. Let go,” Sherlock heard, eyes squeezed shut as orgasm rolled through his body.

A short while later, Sherlock was snuggling into a pillow, sated and lethargic. Iain came back from the bathroom with a wet towel with which he wiped Sherlock’s ejaculate from his chest. Then he took Sherlock’s pillow away from him and situated himself in Sherlock’s arms instead.

“I go to all that effort and you go cozying up to my pillow? Rude of you.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, who did not care at all. He spread his fingers on Iain’s lightly furred chest and burrowed his head against Iain’s shoulder.

“Aren’t you fucking cute,” said Iain, and tickled Sherlock under the chin.

Sherlock made an indignant noise. 

“I am most certainly not.”

“Whatever you say, sweetiepie,” said Iain, and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs into Sherlock and Iain. #awkward

Sherlock had three missed calls from Mycroft and two texts:

_What are you doing at The Strand Palace Hotel?_

_Sherlock Holmes, answer your phone._

He had a text from John saying:

_Where did you go?_

And a text from Molly, saying:

_Do we need to talk?_

He replied to Molly first.

_Do we? -SH_

_I think we do. I get off work at four. Coffee?_

_If you insist. -SH_

Then, to Mycroft:

_Fuck off, please and thank you. -SH_

And to John:

_Busy. No need to worry. -SH_

“Breakfast?” Said Iain, with a mouthful of toothpaste. He seemed to enjoy wandering around the room while he was brushing his teeth, fiddling with his laptop, and humming cheerfully.

“Yes, I know a nice little place close to here. Solved a robbery there once.”

Iain made a suitably impressed sound as he went back to the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste. He reemerged a second later and fell upon his laptop again.

“Not quite the crown jewels, but I’ll take it. Come look.”

“At what?”

Iain cupped his crotch and leered. Sherlock blushed and frowned at him.

“I’m kidding, love. Here.” He turned the laptop around.

It was a photo of Sherlock, taken on the ferry ride from yesterday. His curls were fluttering in the wind, his lips parted in speech, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in laughter. Sherlock hardly ever saw himself like that, he was always sulky in pictures. It was like looking at someone else.

“I was editing this last night when you came in. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Iain said, with the ring of sincerity that made it all the more embarrassing.

Sherlock could not think of something clever to say to that, so he said, awkwardly, “Thank you.”

 

Later, over a full English breakfast, Iain broached the topic that Sherlock had been hoping he wouldn’t.

“Okay, John Watson. What’s the deal?”

Sherlock put down his coffee and made a doubtful face. “What deal?”

“You know, the story. I’m sensing it’s very good.”

“In a way, maybe. Difficult to explain.”

“Try, please. I can resist anything but a good story.” Iain flashed a beaming smile.

So Sherlock tried, starting with his first meeting with John. The way John had admired him, the way he had brought John to life. How his aversion to sentiment had blinded him to his own fallacy until it was pointed out to him with a bomb strapped to John’s jacket. How he had sabotaged all John’s efforts at dating, and it seemed like maybe, soon, something would happen to tip the two of them into a relationship, but instead, a consulting criminal tipped Sherlock over the edge of a building. He had returned ready to reap his reward for the two long years in exile he had fought for the life he had wanted, but contrary to his expectations, John was furious at him for his deception. And he was engaged. Sherlock apologised by helping him plan the perfect wedding, and then sank into deep depression. He was roused by a case in which the villain was John’s newlywed wife, then after she shot him, pulled himself back from the brink of death for fear that Mary would be a danger to John. Once he had ascertained that she never meant John any harm, he had protected her. In return, she had blocked a bullet for him, and John had blamed Sherlock for her death until Sherlock went to hell and back for his forgiveness. Eventually he had moved back in with Sherlock, but things were never the same as before.

Iain hardly interrupted at all during the long tale, but his expressions told a great deal. At the end of it, he looked like Mycroft did that one memorable time he stepped in dog poo.

“I’m sorry, but John Watson sounds like a right cock.”

“Excuse me?”

“If I met him, I would punch him in the face.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s a soldier.”

“I worked in Afghanistan, I’ve punched soldiers.”

“Why?”

“They were shite at their jobs, that’s why.”

“No, not that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Why your John is a cock?” Iain held up a hand as if to list off John’s flaws. “You went on a bloody two year spy mission to save his sorry arse, and he’s pissed that he had to cry over you? Boo hoo. You got tortured by cuckolded Slovenians, what about that?”

“He doesn’t know about the cuckolded Slovenians.”

“Alright, fine. What about, he married a fucking assassin who tried to kill you, and then he went, that’s behind us now, let’s carry on being a happy couple?”

“I told him to do that.”

“You told him- why would you tell him to do that?”

“I wanted him to be happy.”

Iain put his hands down and stared at him in open disbelief.

“It’s Virgin Syndrome,” he pronounced at last.

“What on earth is that?”

“The first person you fall for always seems perfect. All their flaws are endearing and all their virtues are magnified. Being in love with someone changes you, it does, and it’s never happened before, so it seems so very…groundbreaking. You start to think there’s no one else. You think there’s no way you can survive without them. But none of that is true, Sherlock. Look at all these people walking by. I guarantee you, most of them have had their hearts broken at least once, and gotten over it. It takes time, but you realise that your special someone wasn’t so special after all. It’s terribly unromantic, maybe, but there’s seven billion people in this world and about seventeen different personality types. There’s no The One. There’s always a better one, or at least a similar one.”

Sherlock thought about it.

“Interesting theory,” he conceded. “What’s your point?”

“That maybe you don’t need to be hung up on John Watson,” said Iain bluntly.

Feeling defensive, Sherlock said, “He is my Boswell, my conductor of light. He keeps me right.”

“Why would you need someone else to keep you right? You’re perfect.”

“And you wouldn’t think so if we met seven years ago.”

“Hmm,” said Iain. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that.”

They moved on to lighter topics, but Sherlock could not help but feel rather shaken.

 

Sherlock did not want to leave Iain, and Iain seemed perfectly happy to have his company, so they walked over to Regent’s Park, quipping at each other along the way. As they crossed a street, Iain took Sherlock’s hand and laced their fingers together. Sherlock found it rather pleasant. As they came upon the park, Iain made a detour to buy some doughnuts, ostensibly to feed the ducks, but he and Sherlock began pulling sticky, sugary pieces off the edges and shoving them at each other while they walked.

Sherlock mentioned that he no longer wished to solve crimes, and they started devising new career paths for him.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

“A pirate.”

“Nice,” said Iain. “I wanted to be a dragon slayer. We could’a gone on quests together.”

“No, I disapprove of your quest. I’ve always thought that dragons are misunderstood.”

“Hmmmm. Arrogant, frightening, anti-social…”

“Persecuted for a quality that is part of their nature, but resented by lesser creatures.”

“Hmmm,” said Iain, looking at Sherlock fondly. “Good job that career tanked, then.”

He tore off a bit of doughnut and threw it at a large duck. It squawked unappreciatively. 

“How about other things in the pirate-y category? Have you any interest in taking over planes or trains?”

“There’s no point if I can’t make them walk the plank.”

“Oh, is that the point!” Iain laughed. “Well, in that case I know what you should be. A tyrant! We should take over a country and rule as kings.”

“Gay kings? How progressive.” Sherlock smirked.

“Aye. We’ll make it illegal to be straight. Anybody so boring as to be straight will have to leave the country and then we’ll have big gay orgies to celebrate our independence day.”

Sherlock snorted with laughter. Iain shoved a piece of doughnut at him, hoping to catch him unawares, and they engaged in a most childish scuffle of trying to smear a piece of jam-covered bread on each other’s faces.

Someone cleared their throat behind them. Sherlock ignored them resolutely. It was a big park, if they didn’t wish to see grown men have doughnut fights, there were plenty of other paths.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Oh.” Sherlock turned. “John. Hello.”

Yes, there was John in his trusty leather-patched jacket, looking like he couldn’t believe his eyes. A bit farther behind him on the path Rosie seemed to be examining a bush by pulling off its leaves and looking at them one at a time. Sherlock dusted sugar powder off his collar, and gestured vaguely at his companion.

“This is Iain MacKelpie, my…friend.”

“Ay, come on,” said Iain with a mischievous wink. “You’re going to call me your _friend_ after you’ve had yer legs wrapped around my neck?” 

John turned ashen. Oh, that was exactly the look he’d worn when Sherlock had pretended to propose to Janine.

“Behave,” said Sherlock under his breath.

“You must be the legendary John Watson,” said Iain, stepping forward to shake John’s hand most vigorously.

“Legendary,” John echoed, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Sherlock. 

“Oh, Sherlock tells me you have a way with the lasses.”

Sherlock pondered the fastest way he could facilitate a murder-suicide involving himself and Iain MacKelpie.

“Well, nobody’s told me,” said John. “Uh, how did you two meet?”

“Oh, that’s a story,” Iain laughed, throwing an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “There I was, minding my own business, just taking some pictures outside the Palace, and this one comes up to me and says, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’? So I said, Afghanistan, mate, how’d you know? And he tells me my entire life story. Amazing, isn’t he?”

“I know,” said John, quietly.

“Is that your daughter? I think she’s eating leaves.” Iain pointed.

“Fuck,” said John, and ran off to stop Rosie from poisoning herself.

Sherlock rounded on Iain the moment John’s back was turned.

“What are you doing?”

“Breaking your stalemate,” said Iain. “Do you want me to stop?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Alright.” Iain shrugged unaffectedly.

True to his word, when John turned back with Rosie in his arms, he engaged in very proper small talk about babies and Afghanistan until John claimed Rosie’s nappy needed changing and headed in the direction of Baker Street.

Before Sherlock could breath a sigh of relief, Iain backed him heavily against a tree.

“Sherlock, honey, do you fancy me or just my face?”

Sherlock looked at him, breathless. To be honest, he had started to forget how very much Iain resembled John. He spoke and acted so very differently.

“You,” he managed.

Iain examined him for a moment. Then he kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips.

“Good. All I wanted to know.”

The moment devolved into a short snogging session that grew rather too handsy for a public space. Iain stepped back, straightened his jacket, and emptied his paper bag of doughnut crumbs into the pond.

“I’m far better looking anyway,” he muttered.

 

Sherlock timed his trip back to 221B for a shower and a change to coincide with John’s trip to his therapist. However, when he walked in the door, John was still there. His therapist must have rescheduled again, Sherlock thought, furiously berating her lack of professionalism. John looked up, and they stared at each other for a full ten seconds. John finally cleared his throat.

“You’re gay, then?”

Sherlock fixed him with a look of incomprehensible disbelief.

“Did you think I was straight for the past seven years?”

“I uh, I wasn’t sure.”

“I’m quite sure I told you when I first met you, and you said it was ‘all fine’.”

“No, you said ‘girlfriends aren’t my area, which could mean you just don’t do relationships. Which is true. Or that you don’t do anything…or anyone, at all. Which, also seemed true.” 

John spoke as though he had obsessed over and overanalysed the phrasing Sherlock had used numerous times. Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

“Still. I’ve been informed that I act ‘very gay’.”

“I’ve been informed that I am astonishingly unobservant,” John said dryly.

There was a pause.

“Is it still all fine?”

“Yeah! Oh, yeah, absolutely, Sherlock, of course. He, um. Good-looking bloke, isn’t he?”

“Certainly,” agreed Sherlock, restraining ironic laughter with great effort.

“Has this been going on for long?”

“No. No, we met yesterday.”

John’s jaw twitched. “Oh.”

Sherlock waited to see if anything else was forthcoming, but John only picked up his tea and drank as though he was trying to drown himself. So Sherlock removed himself to his room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, neither John nor Iain realises they look EXACTLY like each other. People's perceptions of themselves are never objective. They just think they look quite alike. Also, John is internally dying of jealous rage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iain won't stay in London forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly kinky sex ahead. ;)

Sherlock and Molly were very odd friends, going by the general definition of friendship. Sometimes they didn’t talk for months. But when Sherlock needed Molly’s assistance, she would always be there, and if Molly ever needed him, Sherlock would never be able to live with himself if he could not help her.

“Arm,” Molly demanded as soon as Sherlock appeared at the quiet little coffee shop next to Bart’s. 

Sherlock sighed and suffered through it as Molly unbuttoned both his sleeves and checked his arms for needle marks. 

“Good. How are you, Sherlock?”

“Dead inside. You?”

“Same. I had a horrible date last night but I slept with him anyway because I haven’t gotten any in five months.”

“Charming,” said Sherlock, grimacing, and reached hurriedly for his coffee.

“And how’s John?”

“Also dead inside, I imagine. We can start a club.”

“Or you could just tell him you’re in love with him.”

Sherlock jumped, spilled his coffee, and stared at Molly in dismay. Molly shook her head, exasperated.

“Everyone knows you’re desperately in love with John, except John.”

“ _Everyone?_ ” 

“Mrs Hudson’s been rooting for you two since the start. I suspect she’ll start a charitable foundation in your names if you two ever actually got together. Scotland Yard has had a pool on you two for so long it’s probably expired by now. And according to Wiggins, your homeless friends think that John’s your husband.”

Sherlock was speechless as he processed this information.

“Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Well, no one wanted to interfere! It’s you two. We’re all scared that a nudge in the wrong direction and a building might blow up. But I can’t believe that John’s still dating women, and frankly, you look terrible. So I thought you might like to talk about it.”

“I appreciate your interest in my affairs,” Sherlock replied dryly. “But I happen to have just met someone.”

It was Molly’s turn to splutter on her drink in excitement. “A man?”

“Yes, I checked,” said Sherlock.

“How did you meet a man that’s not John?”

“I don’t know Molly, I took a walk on the streets of London and struck up conversations with strangers.”

“No, but seriously.”

“That’s what I did.”

“Unbelievable.” Molly smashed a small fist on the tabletop.

“Also, Iain looks exactly like John,” Sherlock offered.

“Are you definitely not having me on?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and Googled Iain Mackelpie. He discovered that Iain had published a great many photos and a book, which included a nice, black and white photo for the author’s blurb.

Molly squealed and swore and made Sherlock tell her all the details of their meeting.

“It’s like magic!” Molly cried. “What are the odds? You’ve got one John not-gay Watson and you suddenly meet his gay twin!”

She paused to look at Sherlock thoughtfully. “Do you think you might have a straight twin out there?”

“I wouldn’t hold out hope for it.”

“So what is he like? Is it like talking to John when you talk to him?”

“Not at all. They’re actually rather opposites in character. John looks unassuming and friendly, but will in fact break your heart and your bones if needed. Iain looks most incorrigible, and talks like he’s a tough, worldly man, but is in fact compassionate, idealistic, and couldn’t hurt a soul.”

“So Iain is you.”

“I’ve killed people,” said Sherlock, scowling.

Molly dealt him a withering look. 

“I still have that video of you crying over how soft Toby’s fur is when you had too much wine.”

“And we still have that agreement that no one needs to see it,” Sherlock retorted pointedly.

“Okay, but…do you fancy Iain now?”

“I do like him.”

“And John? Do you still love John?”

“Always,” Sherlock admitted softly.

“So…” Molly cupped her face in her hands and stared at him. “Do you see the problem here?”

“No. John doesn’t fancy me back, does he.”

“Welllll…” Molly shrugged uncomfortably. “I haven’t got anything concrete, no deductions or anything, but a lot of the time, when I was in a room with you and John, the sexual tension was so thick I needed to regularly pop out for fresh air.”

“I thought you were just scared of me.”

“That, too.”

They grinned at each other.

“Well, any advice? This is your area, I would say.”

“Is it?” Said Molly. “Flattering. I’d say, work out what you want, Sherlock. I’m sure Iain’s lovely, but if you’re just using him as a replacement for John, you’d best be sure that you’re not leading him along.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. “Interesting advice. I’ll consider it.”

**Iain MacKelpie ;)**

_Dinner? I feel like something posh._

_Posh? I have some ideas. -SH_

_Something involving sausage, maybe._

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

_Is that so? -SH_

_Some good, juicy, authentic stuff._

Smirking, Sherlock looked up some reviews on German restaurants and sent Iain a link.

 

“Hello, gorgeous. Someone should write you a ticket for that shirt. How many accidents did you cause on the way here?”

Sherlock glanced down at his purple shirt and rolled his eyes at Iain. He would not blush at his two-pence pick up lines like a teenage girl. He refused.

“Don’t blame people’s stupidity on me, Iain.”

“You’re pretty enough to blame wars on, love. I was actually gonna give you some space tonight, but I just got a callback. I’m heading over to Port-au-Prince tomorrow. I’ll be there a month, taking pictures for a magazine to show how things have changed since the earthquake.”

“Tomorrow?” Echoed Sherlock, frowning. 

“Yeah, I’m afraid so. Very lonely job, be nice if someone was to come keep me company.” Iain smiled, wide and hopeful.

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked rapidly in surprise, trying to summon a dignified answer. “Kind of you to offer, but I think I have things to do here.”

“Didn’t you say you’re looking for a new job?”

“I do have other things to do.”

“Ah,” said Iain, with a look of understanding that made Sherlock’s gut twist. “Hm. That’s alright. But do you have other things to do tonight?”

“No.”

“Good. In that case,” Iain leaned over and spoke into Sherlock’s ear, the rolling vibrations of Iain’s voice tickling the shell of his ear. “I want to suck your cock. I want to hear you moan for me one more time. Do you think we could do that?”

Sherlock grew uncomfortably hard in his tight trousers and shifted surreptitiously.

“That can be arranged, yes.”

 

For the second night running, Sherlock and Iain snogged all the way back to Iain’s hotel.

“God, I’m going to take you to pieces,” Iain muttered, squeezing Sherlock’s arse as they stumbled against the wall of the building. “Make you forget your own name.”

He pushed Sherlock against the wall and grinded, the force of the motion making Sherlock’s eyes fly open. This inconveniently allowed him to spot the suited figure standing not five yards away. Sherlock groaned loudly.

“Mycroft, this is getting very old.”

“I would not have to resort to this if you would just _answer your phone_. You know how I hate leg work.”

“I can’t answer my phone during coitus. I’ve been told it’s most disrespectful.”

Sherlock had to struggle very hard not to laugh at Mycroft’s swallowed-a-lemon face, especially as Iain began chortling beside him.

“Curious, how inconsistent your knowledge of manners are,” said Mycroft. “I simply wanted to meet your _friend_.”

“We had this argument when I was seven, brother. You can’t have my friends just because you don’t have any. Try Tinder.”

“Don’t be so indulgent with your memory, Sherlock. You didn’t have any friends either.”

Iain laughed even harder.

Mycroft sighed and struggled harder to look important. “I wanted to continue our _text_ conversation. Desperate men ought be especially careful of Trojan horses, Sherlock.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft, I am forty years old. Could you stop-” Sherlock waved a hand to summon the word. “Cock-blocking me?”

Heaving an even more dramatic sigh, Mycroft swiveled his umbrella and said, “I’ll be watching, Sherlock.”

“That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard a sibling say,” said Iain. 

“Then I don’t suggest you listen to my brother any more than necessary,” said Sherlock. “Come. You have promises to fulfill.”

 

Iain threw Sherlock down on the bed, and began tugging the pillowcase off one of the pillows. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock snorted.

“Making love to you, Middle Eastern style,” Iain claimed. “Take em off, love.”

Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt, intrigued, as Iain fluttered around the room, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully, and picked up a banana from the fruit basket.

“You are not putting that in me.”

Iain laughed and returned with a string of grapes instead. He climbed up and straddled Sherlock’s hips, sitting directly over the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.

“Actually, don’t take it off,” said Iain, halting Sherlock’s hands as his purple shirt fell open. “You look beautiful like that. My god. Put your hands together.”

Iain deftly wound the pillowcase around Sherlock’s wrists and threaded the ends between them so he could comfortably hold Sherlock’s hands restrained over his head.

“They do this in the Middle East, do they?”

“I do,” said Iain. “Open your mouth.”

Iain tugged off grapes from the vine in his hand, and dropped one, two, three, four, five fat purple grapes into Sherlock’s open mouth.

“Now comes the interesting part,” Iain said, grinning, stroking his thumb against Sherlock’s parted lips. “I’m going to have my way with you, and you’re not to bite into those grapes. If you bite them before I’m happy with you…then, hm, you won’t be coming for a good while.”

Sherlock groaned in complaint, thrusting his hips up against Iain’s arse. 

“Do you want to play? If you don’t, just eat the damn grapes.”

Sherlock did not. 

“Good. Alright. Careful not to choke.” 

Iain began to kiss his way down Sherlock’s torso, sucking bruises into his collarbone, nibbling and tugging on his nipples. His weight on Sherlock’s hips held him down firmly and barely allowed Sherlock any give in rubbing against him. Sherlock groaned and whimpered loudly, saliva pooling in his mouth as he struggled not to close his jaw. 

“You would be a god in the old days,” Iain said, scraping his teeth over Sherlock’s sharp hipbone. “People would worship at your shrine, bring you virgin maidens to beg your favour. Oracle, they’d call you, and tremble with wonder at the accuracy of your pronouncements.”

Iain grinned, poised over Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock arched his hips to help him withdraw Sherlock’s belt from the many loops. Iain opened the buttons down the front, and tugged the trousers down only far enough for Sherlock’s cock to spring free. 

“Would you like to be worshipped, my love?”

Iain pressed a kiss to the leaking tip of Sherlock’s cock.

“Would you like…to be…my god?” Long stripes licked from the bottom to the top of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock moaned long and high in agreement, thighs straining with the instinct to thrust madly. Iain folded Sherlock’s belt in half, and dragged the leather loop over Sherlock’s cock, then along his chest and thighs, alternately dropping the cold steel of the buckle to brush against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock felt sensitised and on edge, goosebumps rising on his skin. Sherlock’s brain deduced a second too late the blow that was going to fall, and he flinched, sweet juice filling his mouth. It hardly hurt; A wide pink line formed diagonally across his torso, a bloom of sudden warmth. He was only surprised.

“Ohhh,” said Iain, smirking with pleasure as he caught sight of the crushed grape between Sherlock’s lips. “I win.”

Sherlock chewed and swallowed, attempting to convey with his eyes the sentiment that he had not lost. Iain kissed him while his mouth was still sticky and sweet, wrapping his tongue round and around Sherlock’s greedily until the taste of sugar had disappeared.

“You played dirty,” Sherlock complained in a low rumble as soon as he could.

“What did you expect?” 

Iain let go of the pillow case and let it fall from Sherlock’s wrists. He tugged Sherlock’s trousers and pants off fully and began fumbling with his own clothes. Sherlock wrapped his own palm around his dick and squirmed, desperately eager.

“Ah-ah. Hands off. That’s my prize tonight.” 

“Well, you better do something with it.”

“With that attitude, I might decide it doesn’t need to come at all.”

“That’s not very worshipful.”

“Should I be? It’s much more scandalous if I _debauched_ a god…” 

Fully naked, he dropped to mouth eagerly against Sherlock’s soft, furred balls, licking messily from the base of his cock to the perineum. 

“My God, Iain!”

“What do you want, darling?”

“Lower. Lick it.”

Iain grinned wickedly. “Wherever are you talking about?”

Sherlock huffed. “My anus.”

Iain spread Sherlock’s arse and looked at it. Tugging Sherlock’s hips closer, he thrust his hard cock against the cleft.

“You mean this wet, messy hole here, that I _fucked_ , nice and hard, not twenty four hours ago?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, so gloriously mortified he felt lightheaded.

“ _Yes_ , Iain.”

“Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Sherlock’s hissy response died out into unintelligible moans as Iain finally put action to words.

 

Sherlock had never woken up in someone’s arms before this, and he found, annoyingly enough, that it was a sensation he was sure to miss. His transport felt heavy and lethargic, and he fitted himself closer into Iain’s arms, wrapping his arms and legs around him like an enormous octopus. No one would persuade him to move.

Iain’s mobile began bleeping obnoxiously. Sherlock snarled. Iain untangled one arm from Sherlock’s human cage and silenced it, before bringing it back to smooth over Sherlock’s tangled curls.

“Sorry, love. I’ve got to be up, need to be at Heathrow by ten. You can sleep in. Check out’s at twelve.”

“No,” said Sherlock, tightening his limbs. He forced himself to loosen his grip in a more reasonable manner. “I’ll see you to the airport.”

“Will you? That’s so sweet.” Iain kissed him happily before extricating himself to the bathroom. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop talking on the way to Heathrow. There were still so many things of interest he’d yet to tell Iain about. Sherlock babbled on about his Stradivarius, about the distinction of soil and tobacco ash, about the noble communities of bees. Iain kept a warm and soothing hand on Sherlock’s thigh, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb, and listened with a smile.

They stopped outside the heaving Security Check line.

“I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Sherlock Holmes,” said Iain, looking deeply into Sherlock’s eyes with a hint of a smile. “You’re amazing, do you know that?”

“Of course I do,” said Sherlock.

“It’s been a very interesting couple o’ days. Here.” Iain unwound his colourful scarf and rose on his toes to hoop it around Sherlock’s neck. “Have this, so you can think of me late at night when your heart is lonely.”

“Are you suggesting I masturbate with your scarf?”

“I ain’t ruling it out.” Iain giggled. He dug into his bag for a business card, and tucked that into Sherlock’s breast pocket. Sherlock suspected he was only trying to find reasons to touch Sherlock more. “I’d love to see you again, sometime. Somewhere.”

“You know where to find me.”

“ _You_ know where to find _me_.”

They smiled at each other rather wanly. Iain leaned up to give Sherlock a final kiss on the lips, and headed into Security.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts John about his feelings. It does not go as expected.

When Sherlock was with Iain, it was like being temporarily transported to a parallel reality where his problems were insignificant. It was rather like a double dose of morphine and cocaine at the same time. Sherlock had not quite realised how much he _liked_ Iain until he was walking out of the airport by himself, and everyone annoyed him, and there was no one to hear him complain. Sherlock tried not to be sentimental, but his mood blackened so fast storm clouds might as well have crammed up the London sky to echo his displeasure. And the things that Iain’s laughing presence had chased away sauntered back into Sherlock’s head in a disorderly queue. Sherlock leaned moodily into the cab window and brought Iain’s scarf to his nose, breathing in the smell of spice and whiskey and honey that seemed to be Iain’s signature scent.

He walked into the living room at 221B and hated everything in it. Sherlock knew why he hated it. Enough people less intelligent than he had seen fit to point it out to him.

Sherlock had things to say to John, and it was terrifying. Sherlock had things to say to John, and it was only rational that he say them sooner rather than later, if only he could find the best way to form the words. Sherlock grew agitated at the very thought, made himself several cups of coffee, and walked to and fro noisily across the living room to the repeated complaints of Mrs Hudson.

When John got back from work, Sherlock was still pacing. He’d been at it for several hours, and was at risk of wearing a hole into the living room carpet. John picked up Rosie from Mrs Hudson’s and bundled her straight upstairs for a nap. 

“I don’t know what Mrs Hudson’s doing with her, she’s always so tired afterwards. Do you think she’s teaching her exotic dancing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, muttering vaguely under his breath. John raised his eyebrows and circled round him to the kitchen, where he began putting away the groceries.

“Nice scarf?” 

“It’s from Iain,” Sherlock said distractedly, pacing.

“Oh,” said John, voice carefully neutral. “Nice of him.”

“He left.”

“Oh,” said John again, sounding rather more cheerful than he perhaps should. 

That was what did it for Sherlock. He stopped in the middle of the floor and fluffed up his hair, heart pounding madly.

“John, could you come here, please?”

John froze as though tipped off by Sherlock’s tone. 

“Um. Okay. Just let me finish, um…”

“Of course.”

Sherlock waited silently as John relocated each object to its proper place in the kitchen, and then came to look at him, wide-eyed. Sherlock gestured at John’s armchair. John sat. Sherlock sat down across from him, considered it, then stood up again.

“John, we have known each other seven years. We’ve been through more than most people weather in a lifetime. Which is why I have always thought that you knew this, but as it’s been pointed out to me again how stunningly unobservant you are, I thought I’d say it. I love you. Always have.”

John made a small, soft sound like all the breath had been knocked out of him, and lowered his gaze. John stared at the carpet, frozen in motion, as though he had utterly forgotten how to function. Sherlock watched him raptly with his nails digging into his palms. It was long moments before John gave him a response.

“I love you too, Sherlock, you know I do. But.” John dropped his face into his palms and gave a low groan. He looked up again, expression anguished. “ _Thank you._ For everything, that you’ve done for me. You’ve saved my life in so many ways, so many times.”

“Are you going to say you’re not gay again?”

“No! That’s not even the problem here. I mean, it was, for a while, but now. I can’t- I don’t deserve you, Sherlock! I’m not the man you think I am, not anymore, and I…can’t do this.”

“What do you think I expect of you? I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are.”

“Do you think I can make you happy?”

“Well, yes.”

“You can’t stand being bored. You’re always looking for the next great adventure.”

“And you have always been my most faithful companion.”

“I tag along. And not very well, at that. I promised you-” John’s voice choked. “I promised you nothing would change when I got married, and I lied, in the worst way possible. I put Mary over you- I blamed you-“

“I’ve forgiven you for that!” Sherlock interrupted.

John looked at him sadly. “I haven’t even apologised.”

There was a long silence. John took a long breath and continued.

“And now I have Rosie, and I have to be responsible for her. God knows I barely feel like a functioning human, but for her I’ve got to be. I’m all she has. And that means I can’t keep going on cases, risking my life. I can’t go across town at a moment’s notice because you called and you need me. She has to come first.”

“I’m tired of cases. I can find something less dangerous to occupy my time.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I find that very unlikely.”

“I-”

“No, Sherlock, listen to me. Is this what you want? Because the two of us, we can’t just try it out. It’s either happily ever after, or the entire city of London going up in flames with us. And you don’t even like happily ever afters, I remember your rant about how it’s ‘dull’ and ‘meandering’ and ‘unrealistically optimistic’. Being with me means being a parent. Settling down, being responsible. Leaving off the crime and chemicals and gory experiments. Arguing over the same old things. Even _I_ didn’t much like being married, and not because of the whole assassin thing. It was very boring. Can you imagine Sherlock Holmes as a father and a husband, wholesome as you please? I can’t.”

Sherlock stared at him, his insides rolling like a ship in a storm.

“Iain asked me to go to Port-au-Prince with him,” he said abruptly.

John gritted his teeth.

“Port-au-Prince.”

“Yes. He has a photography assignment.”

“Right. That sounds…nice. Exciting. You should go.” John nodded.

“…Aren’t you jealous?” Sherlock couldn’t help himself.

“OF COURSE I’M FUCKING JEALOUS!” 

John closed his eyes and breathed in and out for several moments.

“It kills me,” he said quietly. “Is that what you want to hear, Sherlock? I’ve been kicking myself for being a stupid, lazy, coward, when I was already half in love with you the day we met. I had so many openings to make my move, and I didn’t. And now it’s too late, and you’ve got a better offer.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

Tears welled up suddenly in John’s eyes, and he threw himself at Sherlock. Sherlock caught him tightly in his arms, so close, not a whisper of space between them, and John cried into Sherlock’s neck. 

“You want who I used to be. And Iain is closer to that than I am today. When I saw you with him…Christ. I haven’t seen you laugh like that in at least a year. I wasn’t even jealous about the sex part, it was…He was doing my job, better than me. Fuck, I’m still mad, actually. But if he’s doing a better job, then maybe he should be doing it.”

“No,” Sherlock said, and hugged John even closer.

“Sherlock. Use that big, rational brain of yours, and think about it.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Sherlock whispered, his voice beginning to shake. “I’ve loved you so long.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock cupped a palm to John’s jaw and pulled him up into a desperate kiss. John tasted of tears and kissed back just as longingly. Sherlock thought of how he loved this man, his soldier, his Captain, who had steered him clearly out of the darkest years of his life without even meaning to. And without warning his thoughts turned to the delicious way that Iain would pull at Sherlock’s bottom lip with his teeth when they kissed. He pulled back guiltily.

“Doesn’t work, does it,” said John, smiling weakly.

Sherlock pushed a few things off the table in annoyance. He flopped down on the sofa and hugged his knees, wishing that he was wearing his dressing gown so he could sulk more pronouncedly. This was decidedly not how he had hoped this conversation would proceed. He had braced himself to be told that John didn’t return his sentiments, but what was he to do when John did love him and still didn’t want him?

“I would do anything for you,” he said, a little bitterly.

“I don’t want you to have to,” said John gently.

“Are we…breaking up?” Sherlock made a face of disgust.

“No!” Said John. He heaved a heavy sigh and sat down close beside Sherlock. “You’re my best friend, and I love you, and I want you to be happy. Go to Port-au-Prince. See if you like that. Remember what I said to you about romantic entanglement?”

Sherlock snorted.

“I can’t believe you thought I fancied Irene Adler.”

“You wrote sad music when she died!”

“I wrote that song for you, John.”

“You did?” John sounded dumbfounded. 

Sherlock sighed. 

“To think. We could be shagging right now if either of us were just a little bit less of an idiot.”

“Well,” said John, wetting his lips. “We could still shag.”

Sherlock turned slowly to look at him.

Right on cue, Rosie started crying upstairs. John raised his eyes to the ceiling and chuckled weakly. 

“I should start being a better Christian. That, there, is God telling me I should stop trying to sin.”

“Or it’s your baby telling you she needs a nappy change.”

“Yeah, I prefer my theory.” John kissed Sherlock on the forehead, and headed up the stairs.

Sherlock heard John’s low, soothing voice talking to Rosie, and her wailing died down. He thought of teaching Rosie inappropriate words, telling her that Father Christmas was a myth, arguing with John over what sort of experiments six year olds should be allowed to take part in. He thought of driving down to his parents’ cottage with John and Rosie in a baby seat and far too many bits and bobs that children seemed to need, of hot chocolate with cinnamon and reading by the fire. Quiet words at bedtime to sooth each other’s nightmares. A shared look to communicate an old private joke. Moving to Sussex and keeping bees.

Then he thought of multicoloured houses and indistinct tongues, dirty-faced children begging for change. Sand in the air, the sun beating down. The crashing waves of the seas and the spray in his face. Concerts in Vienna and tea in China. Learning kung-fu at the Shaolin Temple and playing Russian roulette with the Russians. And a man at his side as mad as he, who would never want to slow down, get married, and buy a house. Someone who also wasn’t afraid to die young. And Sherlock’s heart ached for the things he had to leave behind. It ached for the adventures he had yet to embark.

Was he so terribly opposed to being a father and a husband? Sherlock couldn’t tell. When it came to John, all his principles came in second. Yet to John, he had always been Sherlock Holmes, the myth, the legend. Sherlock hardly knew how John still maintained that illusion despite the numerous times he had seen Sherlock at his worst. Sherlock always tried so hard to live up to it, if only because his vanity lived for John’s admiration. But in the end, he was still regrettably human. Perhaps it was time that he stopped being Sherlock Holmes.

He pulled out his phone, and began to book a ticket to Port-au-Prince.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN  
> I had to fix that “Sherlock Holmes: The Man, The Myth, The Legend (Who you really are doesn’t matter)” ending. Sherlock Holmes can define himself how he wants. He does not have to be the cardboard cutout detective who sits in Baker Street for all eternity waiting to fix your problems. That’s not why he has been loved and remade hundreds of times throughout the century. And my take is no less valid than professional fanboys Moffat and Gatiss, soooo *holds up middle finger to camera like Martin Freeman*
> 
> You may notice that the tags now say 5/6 chapters. That is because I couldn’t bear my bittersweet ending and had to write an alternate Johnlock version which is a bit fluffier. It’s all finished and I will add it soon.
> 
> HUGE HUGE thanks to my regular commenters. You guys are the real MVPs and you make me so excited to post because I can’t wait to hear what you think. Your comments were great inspiration and pointers as to which way I should take the story, and part of the reason I finished the story so fast I actually got way ahead of my daily update schedule and had to sit around twiddling my thumbs telling myself updating more than once a day is just too much. :p love you all <3


	6. Johnlock Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter leads on from the end of CHAPTER FOUR, starting from the morning of Iain's departure. It is an alternate ending where Sherlock and John get together.

Sherlock woke up to tickling kisses all over his face.

“Good morning to you too,” Sherlock murmured.

He opened his eyes and had his breath taken away by the depth of longing in his lover’s face. Iain grinned and blinked it away.

“Gonna map your face with my lips so I don’t forget it.”

“That’s a terribly inaccurate way to make maps, Iain.”

“I know how my brain works, alright?” Iain tapped his head knowingly and bounced off to the bathroom.

Sherlock sat up and looked around the already familiar room. It seemed incomprehensible that it had only been two nights that he had spent here, when he felt so very changed. Iain wandering around the room with his toothbrush in his mouth already seemed like the beginning of a fond and familiar routine, yet Sherlock would likely not be seeing it again. He felt rather panicked.

The past two days had been so very far removed from how his life had been since that memorable trip to Sherrinford, and now he could clearly see how grey it was.

He had told Iain he had things to do here. Had he really? The past six months were a sort of limbo where each day had blurred into the next. He had sagged with the effort of not going back to his drugs. And when Iain was gone, he would return to that again, and there seemed to be no sign that anything would change. Why shouldn’t he benefit from a month away in the sun in a far off country?

“Do you think I could still get tickets on your flight?”

Iain froze as he was buttoning up his cuffs.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. On reconsideration, maybe I don’t have so much to do here after all.”

Iain laughed in delight and jumped over his suitcase to kiss Sherlock in celebration.

“I’ll call the airline. I’ve got loads of miles stored up, could probably get us seats in first class and admission to the mile high club.”

“I’m surprised you’re not already a member,” said Sherlock, and pulled out his phone to make his own arrangements.

He let Mycroft know where he was going, in case the man’s sticking-nose-into-unwanted-places addiction acted up again. Mycroft called him in typical slothful manner as though he was too good to move his fingers to make words. Sherlock denied the call and composed a rude image with text symbols in reply. Then he texted John.

_Going to Port-au-Prince. There is a bacteria experiment in the fridge that you should bin before it escapes the petri dish. -SH_

_What do you mean, you’re going to Port-au-Prince?_

_Iain invited me to accompany him. -SH_

_When?_

_Right now. -SH_

Sherlock locked his phone screen so he didn’t have to look at all the little bubbles of his previous texts with John and stared into space. Was he being mad? But he hadn’t been mad in so long, he was due an episode of idiocy.

 

John had not replied to Sherlock’s last text, and Sherlock thought perhaps he wouldn’t. It was rather a toss up with Recent John. He’d become harder to predict. Sherlock and Iain were all settled waiting for their plane to board when Sherlock’s phone began to buzz. It was John.

“Where are you?” Said John urgently.

“At the boarding gate.”

“I’m- I’m at Heathrow. Would you come out? Please?”

Sherlock paused.

“Why?”

John huffed a noisy breath of static over the phone.

“Don’t leave. I’ve got. Stuff. I need to talk to you about, and I thought I had more time to work up to it. Just, don’t go.”

Sherlock could tell John that he would be back in a month, but the weight of the moment and his own dramatic nature caused him to withhold the comment. His fingers were still entwined with Iain’s, the plane was boarding in half an hour, but this was John. It was always John.

“Wait outside Arrivals. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Sherlock ended the call.

“You’re not coming anymore, are ya?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Iain smiled kindly. It was a little brittle at the edges, but Sherlock tried not to notice.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said again, feeling unusually guilty.

“Nah, no worries, mate. I’m used to leaving people behind by now. And you and your John certainly have a hell of a story.”

“He says he has something to say to me,” Sherlock explained, feeling nervous.

“Does he now?” Iain laughed. “Well, don’t you go letting him off the hook too easy. Tell him he’s to quit being an arse.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. Um. Send me photographs.”

“That’ll cost ya,” said Iain. “I’m very expensive. But here.”

He unwound his afghan scarf and wrapped it around Sherlock’s neck.

“Forget me not, darling.”

“Couldn’t if I tried,” Sherlock murmured, and couldn’t resist stealing a last kiss that lingered twice as long as he planned. “Goodbye, Iain.”

He hurried off, scarf trailing behind him, and did not look back in case Iain’s bright smile dropped.

 

Sherlock had somehow failed to consider that the Arrivals Gate at Heathrow International Airport would be heaving with people, and John was unfortunately hard to spot in a crowd. He spun around, cursing under his breath and shoving people out of his way, and fumbled for his phone to give John a call.

He saw John as he raised his phone to his ears, standing by the edge of the Gate where the crowds were scarce, small and unassuming, just like the day he had first saved Sherlock’s life with a crack shot through two windows. Their eyes met across the crowd and Sherlock made his way over, heart thumping erratically as though it had entirely forgotten its proper function.

John’s gaze caught on the scarf, rudely out of place with Sherlock’s tailored suit.

“Hi,” said John awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Hello.”

“Um, right.” John chewed his bottom lip and gave Sherlock an adorably imploring look. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Sherlock made his best attempt to sound emotionally uninvested.

“I’m sorry I called you back, I panicked, it’s- it’s selfish of me, but I need you to know. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened since I got married. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve been so guilty…I can barely look you in the eye. I’m so bad at this, I just put it off, and off, and-”

“John, it’s alright.” Sherlock’s voice softened of its own accord, and he instinctively moved closer to John as the smaller man blinked back the tears in his eyes.

“No, it’s not. I realised something, something stupidly obvious. You. You love me, don’t you?”

Sherlock blinked. “Of course I do.”

“My wedding. Your best man speech. You were telling me that you love me, and I didn’t hear you.” John laughed, weakly. “Probably the entire room realised what was going on, my ex-assassin wife included, possibly why she shot you- but not me. I didn’t, fucking, notice. You know why? Because I’m in love with _you_ , Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, entirely nonplussed by the way this conversation was going.

“I loved you the day I met you, and I denied it. To myself, to everyone. I always thought you were so, untouchable. I didn’t think it was possible that you could feel anything like what I felt, for me. I wouldn’t, I refused to acknowledge it, so I didn’t understand why it hurt so much when I thought you were dead, why it made me so angry when you interrupted my proposal. You died and I packed all my feelings for you into a little box and moved on, and then you came back, and I was so scared to open up that box of worms again that I turned into an utter arsehole instead.”

“You’re not an utter arsehole.”

“I blamed you for Mary’s death and I beat you up in a morgue when you were already feeling like shit.”

“I didn’t say you’re not an arsehole _at all_.”

John giggled with an hint of hysteria.

“Good we agree on that.”

Sherlock tugged John closer to him by his jacket, and John stumbled into him, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you. I love you, and I’m so sorry. I’ve been the world’s most ignorant, unobservant, ridiculous arsehole. Please don’t tell me it’s too late.”

“Are you borrowing from my best man speech?”

“You can add unoriginal to the list.”

“Well, it was a very good speech.”

John giggled and looked up, and the angle was just right for Sherlock to bend his head and bring their lips together, and _oh_. Inside Sherlock’s head, the walls of his mind palace fell, flowers bloomed in a second, and sunshine swept away the dust and cobwebs that had gathered in so many rooms. It was sweet, and yearning, and too long in coming, filled with all the bitter sweet regrets and might-have-beens that had tortured them for so long.

“Oh,” whispered Sherlock as John broke the kiss.

“I can’t believe I waited so many years to do that,” said John.

Sherlock only stared at him, seized by too much wonder for words.

“Can I make you a vow, Sherlock?” John said, and blushed. “Er. Not that I’m proposing or anything. Bit early for that. I mean, I do owe you one.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I know, that, I’m so far from what you deserve. I’m not young anymore, I’m a single father, I have temper problems, and I’ve let you down far too much in the past. But I promise you. I promise, Sherlock, that I will love you, and cherish you, and, and spoil you, and make up for my previous arsehole-ry to the best of my ability, for as long as you’ll allow me.”

John gazed at him determinedly, his wide eyes filled with soldierly resolve. Sherlock blushed uncomfortably, speechless at the display. He had not expected such words from his stoic, reticent John, and he hardly knew how to reply. John had certainly improved his way with words since his email poetry to his girlfriends.

“That’s more than enough,” Sherlock replied quietly. “Let’s go home, John.”

Unwilling to let go of each other, they held hands as they stepped out into London’s uncharacteristic sunlight. Smiling at each other soppily, they got into a cab at the taxi line-up.

The driver glanced at them in the overhead mirror and then turned around curiously.

“Aren’t you two that detective and his blogger?”

“No,” said Sherlock. He laced his fingers together with John’s on the seat between them and did not elaborate.

It did not matter if he was no longer the great consulting detective, or if John never wrote another word in his blog. It didn’t matter that he had not decided to what cause he would next turn his considerable intellect. Sherlock knew who they were. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: ignorant, oblivious, obnoxious arseholes unwisely and irretrievably in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the "rushing to airport to give belated love confession" trope <3  
> The thing about human nature is, when John is already taking Sherlock a bit for granted and guilty about that to boot, Sherlock doing the love confessions is just too much. It makes John feel even worse, even less worthy of Sherlock's love.   
> But when Sherlock just straight up goes, "leaving for Haiti with my younger hotter lover bye", that ultimatum moment seizes John with the terror of losing Sherlock all over again. It propels him into soldier mode, and right now he isn't thinking about the future, or his responsibilities. All he's thinking is "I love this man and please don't let it be too late". And that is all Sherlock ever wanted from John.  
> The problems of reality can wait for tomorrow. For now, let them have their happy ending in the greatest love story ever told.


End file.
